


trying something new

by brokenEisenglas



Series: Stony Bingo 2019 Round 1 [4]
Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Canon-Typical Violence, Education, Established Relationship, M/M, Nostalgia, POV Steve Rogers, Stony Bingo 2019, Stony Bingo round 1 2019, free space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:32:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: Steve has an artist's showing just days away and was asked months ago to make a request specific theme: Nostalgia. He's suffering artist block. Add in the Spiderkid's magnetism for trouble and a trip to Brooklyn, and he may never get this thing done. Something's gotta give.





	trying something new

**Author's Note:**

> Filling STONY Bingo: Free Space
> 
> -“Adaptability to change is itself a hallmark of successful education.” Peter Hilton  
> -“There’s a certain nostalgia and romance in a place you left.” David Guterson  
> -"I'm a futurist. You're a nostalgia kid of guy... Keeps you interesting." (probably misquoted) Tony Stark to Steve Rogers, Avengers Assemble

They’ve been monitoring the Avengers’ security access through the Datacrux while working in the lower level’s workshop all morning. Steve’s preoccupied with a cartoon on one of the pop-up easels Tony keeps in his shops for him while Tony clinks and clanks around with one of his cars while the armor undergoes repair fabrications. He’s currently laying on the creeper under the car, tools spread out around the space, and it has Steve’s attention slightly distracted from the memory he’s been putting on the page. His sky blue gaze periodically cuts to watch his mechanic shimmying about, out for tools and pans and rags then back under to do what he’s doing. Tony’s covered in grease and dust, and Steve’s fingers itch with the desire to draw what’s in front of him rather than what’s been left behind.

“You keep staring at me working, you’re never gonna get that thing done for the show.”

“I’ve got time,” Steve chuckles.

“Days, Steve,” Tony rolls back out from under the Bentley, then sits up and shoots Steve with an unimpressed brow lift. “You’ve been working on that one for weeks now. What’s got you stuck?”

Steve sighs, putting down the pastel pencil and moving the easel out from in front of him. The cartoon is close to being finished. It’s old Brooklyn, a scene from his childhood: the neighborhood kids out running around, playing a modified version of baseball in the streets. Arnie’s currently the one up to bat, and he’s got this intense focus in his face, tongue sticking out. But, the rest of the picture is mostly empty. The other kids without detail; the adults in the background blurred, nearly formless shapes.

He hangs his head, staring at his shoes. “I honestly don’t know.” The show has been a while coming. Tony’s collected old WPA projects of Steve’s, and they’ve chosen some of his more contemporary canvases, but the showcase director had encouraged Steve to do something new ‘with a touch of nostalgia.’ “I’m sure that if I can get the lines down, I’ll be able to paint it in hours. And, if I use acrylics instead of oils, it’ll be dried by the time I need it.”

The light crackling sound as a weight lifts from plastic board makes Steve look-up. Tony’s wiping his hands on a dirtied whitish rag, a smile ticking up the corner of his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Tony shakes his head while laughing, dropping the soiled fabric onto the Creeper. “Just, you.” 

“What...” Steve breathes as Tony sashays across the shop. Whiskey gold eyes shine in the fluorescent lights, framed by ebony lashes, “about me?” He leans back on the couch as thick, grease-marked jean-clad thighs slide over his lap, settling on either side of his hips. Pearly teeth bite enticingly into rosy lips. Steve uses a bronze powder-stained thumb to trace along the moistened flesh, a hunger stirring low. His other hand traverses up underneath the ratty, dirty t-shirt, tracing along the smooth flesh. “What, um… What about me?”

“It’s you. I’m laughing at you.”

“And why’s that?”

Tony rolls his eyes, a soft smile deepening the dimples in his cheeks that Steve can’t ever ignore. Soft lips kiss his dusty fingertips, face then rubbing into Steve’s heating palm.

“Greatest strategic mind of a generation. You led some of the fiercest battles of World War II, and co-lead the most expansive superhero team currently on the planet. Yet, you’ve spent six weeks struggling with the base lines of one picture, and you haven’t thought to maybe try painting something different?”

“Oh,” the hand on Tony’s lower back stops in its tracing of patterns. He hadn’t really thought of that, “no. I, um… I hadn’t, no.”

“Steve.” A black brow lifts again, questioning, “why not?”

Why, indeed. “They said they wanted something nostalgic.”

“You are such a dork.” Tony plants a wet, sloppy kiss on his lips, then hops back up onto his feet. “Paint something else,” he declares, and saunters back to his side of the shop. He’s down on the creeper and resuming his work as Steve sits dazed where he’s been left half-hard and wanting and considering his options of whether he should get-up and chase Tony down for a quick round of intense rough sex in the shop or if he should bug Tony with brainstorming ideas when the Avengers’ alarms sounds-off.

He’s up out of his seat and to the console in seconds flat, Captain America slotting perfectly into place.

“We’ve got reports coming in of a Taskmaster sighting.”

“Oh yeah?” Tony asks muffled and bangs something underneath the car before the whoosh of the wheels over concrete floor sound. His voice is louder and clearer when he’s sitting up, “How’d that happen?”

Steve opens a video on the holoscreen as Tony comes to join him. “Social media, it seems.” In the video, Spiderman and Taskmaster are running the streets. They aren’t leaving much damage but some bystanders, probably younger kids, have started videoing. The kid is obviously struggling a little with the web-slinging. Wherever they are doesn’t have too many taller buildings. “Locator is still triangulating.”

In the video, Taskmaster gets in a lucky shot and knocks Spiderman back into a shop front, and Cap’s fairly certain he’s about to take a powerful blow to the chest when he uses his feet and superstrength to launch Taskmaster backwards across the street and takes-off, yelling some insult or another.

“I’m going to go help the kid,” Steve declares. He inputs a command in the holoscreen, then rushes back to the old couch, lifting the shield from the floor beside it, quick and efficient. “You coming with?”

Tony’s fiddling with the command screen when Steve turns around to look at him.

“Tony.”

“Yeah! Yeah,” he grumbles, “I’m right behind you. Your reserve suit should be ready for pick-up. With the hoverbikes.”

“You’re the man!” Steve shouts as he runs for the stairwell. He hears the faint chatter of Tony and JARVIS prepping armor specs as he leaves. Tony won’t be too far behind.

-o-0-O-0-o-

He’s in the suit and on the bike in no time. The comms is on stand-by as he flies, waiting for confirmation from Tony that he’s on the way. The flight above the city, over the river, and into Brooklyn is a short one, and while he’s grateful for the expedient transit, he’s starting to worry that Tony may take longer than desired.

Cap’s on the corner of 46th and Hamilton Parkway when he hears the commotion a few blocks down.

The bike zips down the street, nearly silent in its approach. There’s no traffic in this part of the neighborhood, police sirens echoing in the distance. They must have set a perimeter.

The commotion grows louder as he approaches New Utrecht; there’s furniture and brick debris littering the walk and roadway. Steve recognizes the location as the old Loew’s Theater. It’s covered with scaffolding on the front and sides, and as he looks up he sees a hole punched in through the top of the structure. Even from this distance, Steve can hear Spiderman hurling petty quips and insults as Taskmaster grumbles and growls his responses.

“You’d do best to respect your betters, kid.” The subsequent crash and Spidey’s yelp set Cap running. “Might learn a thing or two.”

As he rushes into the lobby, the bike autopilots away and out of range. The comms is still silent, and he’s starting to think that there’s more going on here than he first realized. 

“Iron Man, come in.” He whispers. “Iron Man, can you hear me?”

Static.

“Must be a jammer.” He’s sneaking into the old theater’s floor entrance when the sound of exploding wood and raining shards reverbs through the room.

“Oh, please. You’re the Taskmaster. You know? You ‘master the tasks.’ You’d think you’d have better aim,” the kid is sing-songing, “but I’m just _that_ good.”

 _Don’t get cocky,_ Cap thinks. The theater is mostly dark, illuminated only by the light filtering in through the large hole in near the ceiling. Eerie shadows cast across the floor from the furniture and debris, the niche and statues cast in stark contrast. Spiderman swings from the rafters, back-flipping through the air to land on one of the unharmed wardrobes across the room when Steve sees the disc with flashing red lights.

“Spiderman!”

“Lesson two: Look before you leap, punk.”

Spidey’s flying back across the room before Steve is able to protect him. The shockwave throws Steve’s feet out from under him, his boots sliding on the dust-strewn floor. Taskmaster laughs, the timbre dark and volatile.

The kid slams into the balcony, and somewhere in the distance the shudder causes a portion of the ceiling to crack and crumble. Dust flies, the light refracting throughout the room. Even Steve’s enhanced sight struggles to see in the lowly lit, thickly clouded room. Each breath is filled with the floating particles. They stick and clump in the saliva of his throat, and he has to choke back hacking coughs. He can’t see Taskmaster; the kid is silent, and Tony isn’t here.

_Tony isn’t here yet?_

“Well, look who decided to join the session.” The burn of another rush of adrenaline lights along his spine, and Cap rises. “You come to take notes, Captain America?”

Like the refracted light, the direction that the sound travels is muffled. Add in the temporary blast-related partial deafness, and triangulating the enemy’s location should be near impossible.

But, Taskmaster never _could_ resist a bit of flexing.

With the crunch of boot to debris and the schtick of a weapon unsheathing nearby, Steve smiles sanguine. The power coils in his muscles, body poised to strike.

The shoe appears.

“Peer review.”

Bone crunches beneath fist. The shadow dances along the veil of dust as Taskmaster’s body arcs through the air. If Tony were here, Steve thinks, he’d wax poetic about the exemplary transfer of force displayed. The twist of Taskmaster’s torso as it continues to follow the direction of the initial blow while the rest of his body follows. It’s a sight to behold. And, when the bulk of his weight finally crashes into the mess the mercenary had already made, the cacophony is like music to Cap’s ears.

Up in the rafters, the kid groans. Cap shakes out his hand, restraps his shield to his back, and runs to the stairwell to get up top. With Taskmaster currently out-of-commission, he’s not paying attention when an energy blast blows into his stomach and throws him into a wall.

His head snaps against the brick worsening the ringing in his ears. When he attempts to stand, the world tilts beneath him, or maybe that’s just his knees wobbling out-of-whack.

“Your expertise is lacking, Captain Rogers.”

“Reaper…” The cold touch of the scythe lifting his chin aggravates the ache in his skull.

“Yes,” Reaper growls. The razor edge of the scythe presses heavily into the soft flesh of his throat. He can’t feel blood dripping, but he’s sure it’s soon to follow. His head spins as he tries to raise his hand to push his attacker away. Reaper laughs above him, low and deadly. “Perhaps you should leave the review to the professionals.” 

“I’m glad you agree!”

Even concussed and confused, Steve would know that voice anywhere.

Surprised, Reaper swiftly pulls away, the scythe leaving Steve’s throat. The whine of repulsors charging are warning enough. Cap rolls to this side as the blast shifts the air beside him. Distantly, another body slams to the ground, and the sound of debris shifting barely tingles over the ringing.

He’s struggling to lift his head when the heavy weight of a gauntlet wraps itself around his shoulder and eases him against the wall.

“Hey, Cap. You don’t look so hot.”

Steve’s eyebrows draw together, his mind sluggish but not slow, “Not everyone can be as pretty as you,” he slurs. His eyes are heavy, but grow easier to open with every passing second. His healing factor is working, but not as fast as he’d like. “You take the subway to get here? Or, are you getting old?”

The armor crackles and whistles as Tony laughs behind the faceplate. “Stay here,” he commands, his hand patting Steve’s shoulder gently as he stands. “Don’t need you breaking a hip.”

“I’m old, Tony. Not decrepit,” bones crack as Steve gets his feet back under him.

“You were saying?”

“You should treat your elde-- TONY MOVE!”

Iron Man’s gauntlet raises right as the heavy couch slams into him, taking him to the floor. Steve’s up and running before his feet can steady, each footfall jarring his head. Shield brought out and crouched down, he runs towards Reaper, who’s muttering a litany of unintelligible curses. Another blast against the shield from Reaper’s ray trips Steve up, but he hears the Iron Man boots powerup and Tony in his armor takes off, tackling the scythe-bearing bully.

Steve’s up again, his ears clearer after the respite, when the sound of displaced air increases. Instinctively, he launches himself into an airborne rotation, dodging the blades thrown his way. Knees hit the ground, shield in front of his kneeling torso, when he looks up.

“Your revisions are rejected.” Taskmaster throws the remains of fallen stone, the pieces shattering and crumbling on impact against Cap’s blocking. Steve rushes forward, low and fast, but Taskmaster jumps his body, quick to adapt and quicker to attack. The roundhouse kick to Steve’s chest knocks his footing; the following blow cracks something in his cheek. “Here’s my defense.”

It is only experience-based instinctual reactions that prevent his inevitable beating.

Dodge, left hook, block, fall, roll, rise, kick, blow, block, block, _block_!

“DUCK!”

Steve drops like a bag of rocks, shield over his chest, as Reaper’s scythe comes down over him. Iron Man flies in, grabs the offending Hydra mercenary, and takes off again. Taskmaster lifts from where he’s been repulsor blasted backwards, ready to throw a magnetized explosive, but Cap stops him, vibranium shield bouncing off the arm reeled back to throw. Taskmaster shouts in anger and pain, quick to retaliate. It’s at this inconvenient time that Steve realizes he hasn’t gotten to check on the kid.

The half-second glance distracts him just enough to have Taskmaster lay into him once more. He rips Steve’s shield from his loosely flailing arm, tossing it aside out of reach. Steve’s not winning this fight, he realizes. He’s barely holding his own. His vision is blurring, and the taste of metal fills his mouth, flows through his teeth and over his lips. He can feel his healing factor actively knitting the flesh and bone and muscles back into ship-shape, but Rumlow isn’t letting up. Rumlow knows that he _can’t_ let up. Not if he wants to win.

Steve just didn’t know how far he’d be willing to go to do it.

There’s a split-second where no blow follows, and Cap’s about to have enough focus to set a rhythm when he notices that not only is Taskmaster retreating, he’s left a flashing disk behind.

A rapidly flashing disk.

“Shit.”

Time slows, the world moving without moving, fast and sluggish all at once. It’s a feeling Steve often has, and one he knows he must face now. _Move_ , his mind yells. _Run,_ his muscles demand. 

_Do something_ , a young girl’s voice from memories long ago screams. 

He swings his body around, his ankle protesting the motion, heart palpitating too fast. There isn’t enough time.

The armor that starts wrapping about his body says otherwise.

When the bomb explodes, his partially protected body flies back, but the Armor finishes enclosing him. The concussive blast forces the air from his lungs, but the helmet gives it back. His core is protected.

Today, he will not die.

Repulsors catch his tumbling horizontal “fall.” The suit operates without him, aiding him.

“Hello, Captain Rogers.”

Steve huffs a laugh, “Thanks for the assist, JARVIS.”

A green light flashes across the HUD as the AI says, “You are thanking the wrong person.”

Suddenly, a warning flashes in Steve’s sight, and he snaps his gaze to the scene. Tony is in hand-to-hand combat with Reaper, _unarmored_ hand-to-hand combat, and Taskmaster is about to join the party with Steve’s shield donning his arm.

“ _Shit!_ ”

“Agreed. Shall we intervene?”

“Pedal to the metal, JARVIS.”

The suit takes off with Steve still inside. The HUD displays an Optimizing Controls bar, nearly finished in its calibrating. The plates of the arm shift and adjust around his arms and torso, accommodating his breadth. It’s not but a few seconds before Steve’s being slammed shoulder first into Reaper. The armor’s brakes lift, and a gauntlet rises of its own accord, repulsing Taskmaster back and away from Tony. 

_Too close_ , Steve thinks. _Way too close._

“Systems are now in your control, Captain.”

“Understood.” Using the eye tracking, Steve commands the armor to keep scanning their enemies while he commands the faceplate to lift. “Tony?”

The joints creak as he bends, red metal fingers brushing back a fallen lock of black, oily sweat-filled hair. There’s bruising forming along one of Tony’s cheekbones and over his bottom lip and jaw. Dust clots in the sweat beads on his neck, the grey ash and tanned flesh brilliantly contrasted. Steve’s artist’s eye finds beauty in the pain despite the gravity of the situation. It also doesn’t help that Tony is smiling, big and broad and oh so wickedly handsome.

“You look good in my suits.”

Steve chuckles, “I look good in everything.”

“And nothing,” Tony waggles his eyebrows. They share a laugh, the truth wrapped in the lewdity astounding Steve’s inner deviant.

The soft _thwip_ and following bark of frustrated enragement jerk them from their moment.

“Hey, Cap! Tony,” Spiderman enthusiastically greets. “Sorry for the delay. I know class is almost over, but _man_ was that one much needed restroom break!”

Tony shoots Steve a questioning glare, not quite sure what exactly the kid is talking about.

“I’ll tell you when we get home.”

Hand clasped in gauntlet, with the kid hovering nearby, Steve pulls Tony back to his feet.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he mutters, brushing his already grease marked and ripped pants and shirt off.

Beside them, Spiderman hops impatiently from foot-to-foot. “Is it time to turn in homework, yet?”

Steve chuckles, “You’ve got five minutes.”

The kid salutes, “Only need three,” and swings off.

“Mind if I borrow this?” Steve asks, motioning at the armor. Tony’s eyes roam once over, grin half-cocked and hazy; he’s getting some ideas.

“Only if I get to take it off, Patriot,” he licks his swelling lip, flinching when he tongues the cut.

Steve rolls his eyes, then winks. “You’ve got a deal.”

Faceplate slamming down, repulsors charged and ready, the Armor awaits his command.

Time to flex.

-o-0-O-0-o-

It’s a few hours later and Steve’s sitting with his back against the old couch in the workshop, chalking the new lines for the cartoon he’ll be using later for the painting. The floor is cold and hard under his butt, but the rigidity feels nice for his aching back.

“My face hurts.”

Well, the floor is nice _and_ Tony is laying flat out across the couch and leaving no room for Steve to comfortably sit.

“You should have kept the armor on,” he replies.

They’re both covering in wounds. Tony’s face has swollen immensely while Steve’s is passing that point. Taskmaster had broken Steve’s nose and cracked bone in the cheeks; there had also been the broken ribs, fractured skull, and bruised internals. SHIELD had wanted to keep Steve overnight; he didn’t agree.

They’d tried to keep the kid, too. If Steve’s healing factor liked to take him to bed, Pete’s just knocked him flat on his ass.

It hadn’t taken Spiderman and him very long to finish rounding Taskmaster and Reaper. With Spidey’s webs and the armor protecting Steve’s wounds, they double-teamed and took them down. Taskmaster had almost run out of explosives, and Steve ripping the scythe from Reaper’s arm removed the blaster from play. He tries not to think about the mess he left behind by doing that, though.

Tony had run out and joined the city’s police and the SHIELD agents in waiting. Steve assumes he’d called the hoverbike down since he was on it when he and the kid finished.

“You needed it more than I did at the moment.” Tony rolls over on the couch, removing a cloth-wrapped ice pack from his jaw. Steve twists to observe him, biting his cheek against the pain the movement causes and the denial he immediately wants to make. “Besides, how often do I get the chance to see you in _my_ clothes?”

“Tony--”

“I mean, come on, Steve. You’re a powerhouse. A beast,” Tony wriggles his eyebrows. “You can’t fit my clothes. But, the new armor? At least it adjusts!”

“Tony,” said man squints his reddened eyes at Steve, daring him to argue, “You make all of our suits.”

He grins as Tony groans, then whimpers from the pain of making the face when he does, and then swats Steve’s shoulder.

“It’s not the same, and you know it.”

Steve does. He knows intimately well how much of ‘not the same’ it is. He adores it when Tony struts around the Tower in Steve’s shirts or sweats. In fact, even now Tony wears one of Steve’s long-sleeves and a pair of flannel bottoms.

“I didn’t even get to see it come off!”

When they’d returned to the Tower with the kid in tow, they’d had their medical evals, assigned the kid a room to stay for recharging, and gone to their quarters to clean-up. Because of the evals, Tony hadn’t been the one to remove the armor-- more’s the pity-- but Steve had asked JARVIS if he’d mind taking some good photos in the disarmament process. He’s hoping those came out well.

“There’s always next time?”

There’s a blip of notification that grabs their attention. Tony’s eyes bulge at the holo display behind Steve, a deep satisfaction and hungry desire filling his expression. Steve doesn’t have to turn to know what it is.

“Thank me for J,” Tony whispers. “Definitely next time.”

Steve nods, happy that Tony’s happy and wanting, and turns back to his work. He’s not entirely satisfied with the composition, but he’s mostly settled with the subject matter.

After he and Spiderman had brought the villains to the proper authorities, gave quick summaries of the events that happened and planned for debriefings, Steve had sidled up to Tony who was sat on the hoverbike. Even with the wounds marking his face and the scuffs, tears, and stains marring his clothes, he still silently called to Steve like a siren to a seaman. 

The tangible manifestation of the Future made flesh, marred by experience and tempered by determination, patiently waiting for a ‘nostalgia guy’ like Steve.

“‘Keeps you interesting,’” he remembers.

“What does?”

Steve’s eyes lift, noticing that Tony has moved from the couch to the Datacrux where he manipulates holograms. His partner isn’t looking at him, but his body angles towards Steve, displaying interest. Steve didn’t know he’d said it out loud.

“Just, something I remember you saying.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

Tony is so pretty, he thinks. Always moving, always charging forward, yet, so comfortable in his ability to blend with the past.

“Nostalgia.”

-o-0-O-0-o-

They’re standing together in the softly lit reception area as visitors filter in and out. There’s a line out the door, where people of all walks of life wait with a surprising amount of patience. The doors will be open for much time to come and without Tony by his side he imagines he would be more overwhelmed than he currently is. Some guests gather the courage to approach Steve and ask about his works, about himself, and sometimes about being an Avenger. He doesn’t mind. Tony hovers nearby as he speaks, leaving the floor open to Steve’s presence as wide-eyed listeners soak in every word. Steve is just as enamored with their unadulterated interest they seem to be with him. Tony’s supportive presence encourages Steve to concede to his own repressed excitement, and by the time he finishes one presentation to start another, his lips tingle from the frequency of his words. His whole body buzzes with excitement.

“I’m proud of you, Steve.”

“You are?”

Tony nods, a soft smile adorning his face. “Always.”

They stand awaiting the next group. In the meantime, Steve observes. Tony’s looking a bit better today, but the make-up may be skewing that reality. The swelling is going down, and his eye can open most of the way, but his lip is still split. No one has asked, but many have noticed. He hopes they can get a good night’s sleep; Tony deserves it.

The chatter of teen kids reaches Steve’s ears, and he looks up to see a very familiar group approaching. Chimes of “Mr. Stark”s and “Captain”s dances around them, and it’s such a nice sound, this excited jubilance. Peter has his friends and teammates with him, all dressed in civvies and radiating interest and glee.

They’re here for the show, with homework and SHIELD assignments in hand. Ava says she’s here to interrogate Steve; Peter is here for some photos, if that’s all right with him, and Luke, Sam, and Daniel plan to mooch as Ava describes it. Tony rolls his eyes, smiling despite the obvious indication that Ava, too, plans to goof around. Peter’s stress is palpable, only slightly surpassed by his own journalistic and nerdy interest.

“You named it _Nostalgia_? Lame,” Ava says.

Steve likes her honesty, even if the other kids are hushing and reprimanding her for her supposed display of disrespect. 

“Blame Tony,” he tells them. Tony snorts beside him.

“Don’t use me as an excuse.” The kids jitter, excited chatter beginning again. “You keep smiling that boyish charm kind of smile and they won’t be able to finish asking you anything.”

Ava fakes a gagging motion while Luke’s face darkens in his blushing. Sam and Peter look elsewhere while Daniel smiles. _Teens_ , Steve thinks.

“So, what about that one?” Peter points at the work behind Tony and himself. “What’s that one about?”

Despite the number of people have been through this evening, none had yet asked about the foyer piece. It’s the newest, hidden in plain sight. Easily overlooked by the excitement of entry. Yet, it is the central piece of this show’s very idea. The conjunction of the ideas.

He steps aside revealing the painting in its entirety. He’s peripherally aware that Tony, too, has stepped back and close to the group of teens. Steve’s cheeks burn, embarrassment flushing through him. While Tony’s seen it, Steve hadn’t told him about it, had actually refused to explain until time.

Well, it’s time.

“I was born in Brooklyn on July 4th, 1918. I was a small kid, bullied often; and this is Arnold Roth, the kid who saved my life.”

He tells them the story of growing up poor in one of the rougher and more “deviant” communities of the Brooklyn area. The story of two kids learning who they were, talking about where they were going, and growing up to be the best that they could be. Fighting bullies all the way. In the painting, two boys sit together on the cracked roads of an old Brooklyn street with their bat, mits, and baseball between them. They’ve got dirty trading cards in hand, and their dirt smeared faces smile brightly. Behind them, a group of other kids approach. The smaller kid looks back over his shoulder with eye shining towards a wild-haired brunette boy. 

The five kids run to join, their own ‘toys’ in hand. Heroes gear disguised as childrens’ games; the disguise of what they are in what they once were and dreamed they could be.

“I believe that we can each learn from one another and that with it we can grow. That, despite the time that separates us, there’s a hero inside each of us. That we _want_ to do good. And this,” he looks wistfully at the painting, vision blurry from unshed tears, “this for me, is me. I may be a nostalgia kind of guy,” Steve has to wipe his eye to clear it, “but I’d like to think I’m not the only one. I am comprised of the experiences I’ve had, and the people I’ve met. The people I’ve lost, and… the people I love.”

Tony sniffles a laugh behind him. His eyes shine with unshed tears. The silence between them is poignant, and it’s as if the rest of the world isn’t there. It’s like deja vu; Steve’s been here like this before. This moment where he recognizes the ache of longing for the past he had clashing and melding with the future he so desires. A Future that seeks to run fast ahead, untethered. He likes to believe he is that tether; he’s a reminder of the past to not be forgotten.Tony never forgets him, always comes.

“Eeugh… _gross_.”

“AVA!!!!!”

The kids all start arguing again as Tony sidles up to Steve, an arm slipping around his waist like a rope tying to shore, his beard tickling Steve’s cheek as he kisses him.

“Keeps you interesting,” he whispers.

Steve beams.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea a few months back. It wasn't originally in Steve's POV, but he took over the narrative. I'm not disappointed with the change, but definitely surprised by it.
> 
> The Avengers Assemble Steve-Tony dynamic, particularly in seasons 1 through 3, is something to be envied. I love their interactions, their loyalty to one another even despite their differences. Together, they are two sides of the same coin, a double-edged sword deadly effective in every blow.
> 
> I hope you all have enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts, feelings, and criticisms in the comments below. :D


End file.
